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Lives During Wartime, Vol. 3

Home Fires features the writing of men and women who have returned from wartime service in the United States military.

Last week, the editors of Home Fires invited readers to send their recollections and photographs of members of the United States Armed Forces in acknowledgment of Veterans Day. Below is a selection of those remembrances submitted by friends and family of veterans, and from veterans themselves. Last year’s Lives During Wartime post can be read here.

— The Editors

Courtesy of Peter N. Shinn

Tessa Poppe

I was the public affairs officer for the Iowa National Guard’s 734th Agribusiness Development Team at F.O.B. Wright in Kunar Province Afghanistan between August 2010 and June 2011. The photo above is of Sgt. Tessa Poppe of Iowa City of the A.D.T.

Our team was a joint mission — both Army and Air National Guard — but it was primarily Army. I was one of only five airmen on the team, and I had some preconceived notions about soldiers, most of them unfavorable. My interservice stereotypes had been hardened by nearly 27 years in the Air Force, but it only took a few weeks of working with the soldiers of Iowa’s A.D.T. to show me my anti-Army biases were all wrong.
The soldiers of the A.D.T. were wickedly smart, wildly funny and wholly committed to one another. I genuinely liked each of them very much, but one soldier, Sgt. Poppe, came to typify for me the very best of of the attributes that I admired. Poppe was, first of all, a good soldier. She was an expert on squad-level tactics and weapons and led her team of military police effectively. Poppe was also tough. She could foot patrol all day in 80 pounds of gear, weapon at the low-ready, and I never doubted she would pull the trigger if necessary. Her goal was to be in the infantry, a field still closed to women by the Army. Just 23 years old, Poppe was a senior at the University of Iowa studying the Russian language and international relations. She would have already graduated, but her deployment to Iraq for a year in 2008 had set back her schooling some.

Poppe also had a soft side. While we officers turned a blind eye, she rescued an Afghan dog she found on a mission in November 2010, and within a month she had “Izzy” shipped back to America. Children flocked to Poppe as well, and the picture here shows an Afghan boy handing her a rock on April 27, 2011 in the Khas Konar District of Kunar Province. All too often, children would throw those rocks at us, but Poppe simply walked up, looked the boy in the eye, and he handed it to her. I took about 5,000 pictures a month while I was in Kunar. That’s probably my favorite.

Our mission in Afghanistan was to improve agriculture in Kunar, and we made some steps in that direction. But we couldn’t have done any of it without the M.P.’s. Everyone on the Iowa A.D.T., 64 soldiers and airmen, made it back alive.

Submitted by Capt. Peter N. Shinn, Maxwell Air Force Base, Ala.

Dennis DeMarco

Courtesy of Dennis DeMarco

I arrived in Vietnam in January 1969 and was taken from the airplane to the barracks in a school bus with heavy grating on the windows. It was night and very dark. The realization was that this grating on the windows was to keep the VC from tossing explosives into the bus. From that point on I realized you were never safe in Vietnam, you could be killed or wounded any time, any place.

It happened to me in Na Trang which was considered a safe because it was so big. It was night and I was walking across an artillery base and heard an explosion. It wasn’t nearby, perhaps 50 or more yards away but somehow almost the same second I heard it I was hit with a piece of shrapnel that blew the right side of my face to pieces. I survived but it has left me with scars both inside and outside that I’ve had to deal with every day of the past 42 years.

A tour of duty in Vietnam was one year: 365 days. I was a short timer with only 60 days left till I could go back to “The World” as we soldiers called it. So you see, no one was safe in Vietnam.

Submitted by Dennis DeMarco, Santa Barbara, Calif.

Robert Borden

I served in the Marines as a lance corporal in Vietnam in 1968 and ’69 calculating how to aim artillery pieces, mostly in the Da Nang area. I was never wounded, though I was fired at with rockets, mortars, machine guns and rifles, as well as being in places that were mined and booby trapped. I was very lucky. I saw a lot of blood and a lot of death, none of it my own.

Courtesy of Robert Borden

This photo was taken when I was 19. I spent my 20th birthday on Okinawa in the pouring rain, listening to Bob Dylan records I bought at the PX. I got out of the service on June 26, 1969, just one week before the 4th of July. All those firecrackers and explosions really creeped me out. More than 40 years later, I still hate fireworks.

The Vietnam War still makes me angry.

Submitted by Robert Borden, Glenview, Ill.

Peter Ball

Courtesy of Susan Ball

Peter Ball (1913-2006) won the U.S. Legion of Merit for his work with displaced persons, or D.P.’s in World War II. After the liberation he commanded Buchenwald and other camps where he helped prisoners regain their health and either return to their homes or find new ones. He was part of UNRRA, United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration. For the rest of his life he remained friends with many of the people he had either worked with or helped repatriate during those years. Despite his sunny nature, he was plagued by nightmares from the suffering he saw during the war.

This is in memory of my uncle Lt. Robert Douglas Sharp, (1922-2002), United States Air Force. Bob served as a B-17 Flying Fortress pilot and wing commander with the 493rd Bomb Group, a unit of the Third Bombardment Division. In 1944-45 he flew in 35 air combat missions over Germany. For his service and heroism he received the Air Medal with five oak leaf clusters. The photo is of Bob and his crew after a mission. Bob is standing tall (he was 6-foot-5) in the back row.

His plane was named the “Baby Me” since it was forever experiencing mechanical troubles, yet somehow kept on flying. Bob and all his crew survived the war. He returned home to marry Bette, the love of his life, and together they had four wonderful children.

During my own years of service Bob always listened and offered me wise counsel. He was a good man, and part of that “greatest generation” that changed the world. I miss him.

Submitted by John Sharp, Concord, Calif.

Robert Burlison

Robert in the poem is Robert Burlison, of Edmeston, N.Y., Company E, 397th Infantry Regiment, 100th Division, who died in France in January 1945 and is buried in the American Cemetery at Epinal, France. I owe my life to him.

EPINAL

It seems unfair, considering all,
That I am here in this place now
With eighty summers on my brow
And you are there in Epinal
Among our comrades sleeping there,
That I can hear the robins sing
And see the almond tree in spring
And you are there. It isn’t fair.

Flowers, if you grow in Epinal,
Grow near where Robert lies.
I will dream that he has eyes
And sees some fairness after all.

Submitted by Philip C. Ellsworth, Cedaredge, Colo.

Herbert Winograd

Courtesy of Mark WinogradHerbert Winograd, far right, during the liberation of Pilsen in the former Czechoslovakia.

At the end of World War II most of Czechoslovakia was liberated from the east by the Red Army. The fact that it was the Americans who liberated the far west of the country has been largely forgotten. General Patton chafed at being held back, but when told to go into Czechoslovakia, reportedly whooped: “On to Czechoslovakia and fraternization.” My father, Herb Winograd, was wounded in the Battle of the Bulge and returned to active duty just in time for the final Allied push. He never liked to talk about his war experiences, but made an exception for the liberation of Pilsen, now in the Czech Republic, on May 6, 1945. In Republic Square, thousands of people turned out to greet their liberators and celebrate their freedom. The Czechs showered the Americans with flowers, food, and their world-famed Pilsner beer.

My father, on the far right of the photo, had two great memories of the liberation: the Pilsner beer and, in particular, the fraternization.

Submitted by Mark Winograd, Paradise Valley, Ariz.

Trevor Cook

As Veterans Day approaches it will be four months since the loss of our son, Sgt. Trevor Cook, U.S. Marine Corps. A decorated crew chief serving with the 369th “Gunfighters,” he survived two tours but to pass in a training exercise in California this past July.

Veterans Day is a day to thank our military, and to pay homage to those that served. Our son, and all his brothers in arms, gave unselfishly of themselves, so that we may live free, and have many opportunities that most people on this earth don’t have. Let’s hope that more people than ever remember the small percentage of Americans who signed up to serve their country, and those that paid the ultimate sacrifice.

Courtesy of David Cook

Those of us that were fortunate enough to be born here in this great country should consider ourselves “lottery jackpot winners” of the greatest magnitude. Our men and women in the military, including our veterans, are the ones who helped punch that ticket!

Submitted by David Cook, Lyndonville, N.Y.

Marvin J. Wolf

I was an Army combat correspondent with the First Air Cavalry Division in 1965-66. One day in December 1966 I accompanied a group of Army doctors and dentists to a remote hamlet in Binh Dinh Province. As we approached the village we took sniper fire, but nobody was hit. In this hamlet we held a sick call, passed out soap, toothpaste and toothbrushes, Band-Aids and antibiotic gel. We treated minor cuts, scrapes and infections and filled or pulled several teeth. In the process we found about 30y boys and men with cleft palates. These individuals were all related to each other; one doctor thought the condition might be genetic. A few weeks later we returned, set up a large tent and turned it into a sterile operating theater. I scrubbed in and used a waterproof camera that I immersed in an antibacterial solution. The doctors repaired every cleft palate, and returned twice for followups. They took sniper fire every time. The patient in this photo was the village headman.

Courtesy of Marvin J. Wolf

Submitted by Marvin J. Wolf, Los Angeles

Sgt. Joshua Allen Ward

Courtesy of Patti Ward

I would like to submit in memory of my son, Sgt. Joshua Allen Ward, killed in action, Feb. 9, 2009, Mosul, Iraq. Sergeant Ward was an exceptional soldier who signed up as soon as 9-11 happened to stand for his country and make a better and safer place for his boys to grow up in. He was a class clown and if you ever met him, you would never forgt him. He lived his life giving and making sure everyone was happy. He was on his third tour in Iraq when he was killed. He left three little boys behind, the last born five months after he died. He wrote a letter to me and I will send that in because it says it all about Sgt. Ward and what a hero he is.

Courtesy of Patti Ward

I serve my country because I love it, and I serve because if I wasn’t there, there would be some other person here instead of me, and, well, I think that whoever would have taken my place should be at home enjoying their life. I serve because it makes me feel good inside. It makes me know that there is always something out there to strive for. In this case, I strive to help other people in the world that don’t have the opportunities that I have. There is a lot of other boring reasons that are really corny but, you know, it’s just what I choose to do because in my country, I have the right to make that choice.
— Sgt. Joshua Allen Ward, Jan. 9, 2009.

Submitted by Patti Ward, Matagorda, Tex.

Evart Eugene Robeson and Melvin J. Olson

It’s been more than a lifetime — at least my brother’s 35-year lifetime — since he died in Vietnam on November 25, 1967. “Gene” to us (“Robie” to most others) was a soon-to-be promoted major and a pilot of the Vietnam War’s workhorse Huey helicopters. His first Vietnam tour was in 1965 when the First Cavalry (Air Mobile) was stood up. Just two months into his second tour, he was wounded and died two days later. We got the telegram notifying us that he had been wounded on Thanksgiving morning and were assured that he would be recovering and coming home soon. He did come home, but not as we had hoped.

Even though at the time he was career Army, making war was not what he was about. Instead he was about having fun and enjoying all of life. He grew tomato plants and baked bread outside his tent in Vietnam. He loved Louis Armstrong and sang a tipsy “Hello, Dolly” solo at a local night club before he deployed. He loved his family — his kids. And he loved flying.

In many ways he was like our uncle, Staff Sergeant Melvin Olson, who was so eager to enlist that he fudged his age and joined the U.S. Army Air Forces as a crew member on a B-17. One of his last letters home was to my mom and dad, my brother Gene and my sister. He wrote: “My position on the ship is the ball turret, the best position…When I finish 25 missions I hope to come home and if things keep going I hope to have them in by shortly after the first of the year. I’ve flown over France, Germany, Belgium and Holland and have hopes of flying over the Old Country [Norway] before I finish.” He concluded the letter: “As long as we over here have the backing that you and the rest are putting out back there it won’t be long before we’ll all be home living the way we want to live, living like what we’re fighting for.” He died on October 8, 1943. He never came home and was buried in the American Cemetery in the Netherlands.

Two brave young men from South Dakota who are still young in our memories and held close in our hearts. May God grant us and them the peace they never knew.

Submitted by Glenda Kendrick, Alexandria, Va.

Daniel Snydacker, Jr.

Courtesy of Daniel Snydacker Jr.

These were “my boys in the ‘Nam.” We were U.S. Army, members of Co. A44/36th Signal Battalion stationed at Bien Hoa, Vietnam. Our compound and our unit was the target of what has been described as one of the worst friendly fire incidents in Vietnam in February of 1970. Because the unit was involved in secret activities — I believe it had to do with the incursion into Cambodia — we were never told how many men were killed that night. I share this in the hope that someone recognizes some of my friends who kept me sane and who made it apparent how racism was at the heart of the war in so many ways. As the over used but nevertheless true saying goes, “War is not the answer.” Ever.Submitted by Daniel Snydacker, Jr, Southport, Conn.

Charles Hrobak

Courtesy of John Farbarik

My Uncle Charlie, Sgt. Charles Hrobak, came from a small coal mining town in western Pennsylvania. He served as an Army infantryman in France and Germany during World War II. After the war he returned to the mines but not for long. He reenlisted just prior to the Korean War. His brother, my Uncle Frankie, enlisted at the same time. Frankie was very badly wounded during subsequent fighting at the Pusan Perimeter. Charlie was captured during the fighting at the Chosin Reservoir and served some three years in a Chinese prison camp.

The attached picture is of the family waiting for him to get off of the train in the Pennsylvania Station after his release from prison. I wasn’t there to greet him even though my school was just a trolley ride away. When he asked me why, I told him that I had a math test to take. He told me that I had done the right thing.

Courtesy of John Farbarik

His girlfriend Mary, now his wife, waited for him to come home: they were married three months later. After my graduation, I joined the Navy, was commissioned, and served for 20 years as a Navy Civil Engineer Corps officer.

Submitted by John Farbarik

Maurice L. Shea

Courtesy of Gordon SheaMaurice L. Shea

My father Maurice (pronounced “Morris”) L. Shea served in the Marine Corps in World War II, and fought at the Battle of Iwo Jima. Originally from Fond du Lac, Wisc., he left St. Joseph’s College in Rensselaer, Ind., where he was on a football scholarship, to join up. In so doing, he was following the example of his own father, also named Maurice, who had been in the Marines years earlier. Like most men who served in World War II, my dad did not tell me much about his experiences in the war. It is somewhat unfortunate that photographer Joe Rosenthal’s famous picture of the Iowa Jima flag raising, and artifacts related to that photograph (such as the Marine Corps Memorial statue in Washington, D.C., James Bradley’s book “Flags of Our Fathers” and its disappointing Clint Eastwood film adaptation, stamps issued by the U.S. Postal Service, etc.), have brought Iwo Jima down to later generations as something of a meta-story – a story of one symbol of the battle, rather than an appreciation for what the battle meant, and the vast majority of those who (like my father) never appear in the popular histories, but who nevertheless helped secure our freedom by offering up their lives on that small island.

Submitted by Gordon Shea, Sun Prairie, Wisc.

John Palmieri and Michael Vouri

Courtesy of Michael VouriJohn Palmieri, left, and Michael Vouri, in 1969 and 2011.

My Vietnam buddy John Palmieri and I are shown together at the Rangers Ballpark in Arlington, Tex., last summer It was an amazing reunion. From June 1968 to June 1969 John was on the flightline at Binh Thuy Air Base, while I was an O-1 Bird Dog crew chief at Cao Lanh in the Mekong Delta. We were the best of friends. In January 1969, John’s good friend, Pete, was killed instantly by the first round of a mortar attack. John was standing next to him, and while the concussion threw him into a bunker, numbing him for nearly 24 hours, he did not receive a scratch, which has left him emotionally scarred to this day. The following day my pilot was shot down and killed and a few months later I contracted dengue fever, losing 20 pounds. We ended up sitting together flying home, counting the hours to touchdown in the world. When we parted at Travis AFB, CA on June 15, 1969, we swore to stay in touch. We did: 42 years later. After a couple of hours, it was as if we’d never been apart. Some of it was painful, as we’d never expressed our conflicted emotions — not as 20 year-olds. We gained perspective and I hope a truer sense of peace with ourselves and those turbulent days.

Submitted by Michael Vouri

Annette Schroeder

Courtesy of Melodie Desmond

In 1942, my mother’s husband of only a few months was listed “missing” in the Merchant Marine after his vessel was reported sunk by the Navy Department. So in January of 1943, she decided to support the war effort and join the Women’s Army Corps. Annette received her basic training in Daytona Beach, Fla., and was then stationed at Fort Dix, N.J.. Members of the Women’s Army Corps were the first women other than nurses to serve within the ranks of the United States Army. “When my husband was announced missing, the armed forces didn’t lose a soldier, for I decided to take his place,” she said. Her three brothers were all serving in the Navy at the same time. (All of them returned home safely.)

Submitted by Melodie Desmond, Boxford, Mass.

George Adamovich

Courtesy of George AdamovichGeorge Adamovich as a young military policeman at the border of the U.S. sector.

As a Cold War Veteran, I had the honor to serve our country as a military policeman in Berlin, Germany from 1956-59. Our location was often called “The Outpost of Democracy” because it was located 125 miles behind the Iron Curtain in Communist East Germany. Berlin had been divided into sectors each controlled by one of the Allies, Britain, France, the United States and the Soviet Union. There were ongoing times of tension at our checkpoints between us and East German Volks Polizei and during the Hungarian Uprising in 1956 where we were ordered into high alert. These tensions reminded us of our precarious position if a war were to break out between the East and West. We all shared the feeling that our garrison would not be able to hold out for long. Those who served in the Outpost of Democracy generally shared a particular bond of friendship. We formed a Berlin Untied States Military Association (BUSMA) which holds reunions in Germany from time to time.

Courtesy of George AdamovichSpandau Prison, Berlin: Control of the prison was rotated between the Allies on a monthly basis. Here we see a “hand-off” from American troops to the Soviets.

It was the time before the Berlin Wall was built and as we could walk or take an S-Bahn or U-Bahn into the Soviet Sector of Berlin and do some sighting. We always wore civilian clothing because the East German police were known to create incidents that involved our personnel. Since our government did not officially recognize East Germany, we only negotiated with Soviet authorities to have our troops returned. Goods were much cheaper in East Berlin including beer. As you can imagine, incidents did occur causing international bargaining sessions with the Soviets. It was not pleasant for the soldiers involved in these situations and they often found themselves restricted or with extra details upon their return.

Submitted by George Adamovich

Jerry T. Williams

In 1968, my family didn’t make many personal long distance calls. When my mother in North Carolina rang me at my New York office, I knew it had to be dire or important information, and it was. My parents had just heard from my baby brother Jerry that he would be arriving home from boot camp on Friday — a brief leave before being shipped out to Vietnam less than 24 hours later. My parents were both stunned and so was I.

Usually my trips from New York City were for the holidays only, but I knew I had to get home — the daily headlines about the war in Vietnam were so dire that I felt this would be the last time I would ever see my brother. Luckily, Eastern Airlines had a ticket. An airport bus from the Grand Central stop left on time for La Guardia. The delay came a few miles before the airport:: a terrible accident blocked every lane of traffic headed out of the city on the Long Island Expressway. I nearly held my breath as the lanes were cleared and the bus started again — but it was too late. Racing to the Eastern gate, I learned my flight had already left. I cried, to no avail, as I explained my plight, but, luckily Eastern agents managed to get me on the next flight. I got home to North Carolina in time for a brief goodbye with my brother before he headed out from Greensboro the next day.

Unlike so many, Jerry came back from that terrible war, but not unscathed. He did not talk about it for years. He’d sent home a number of the happy-go-lucky kind of photos during the time he was there, and he’d written — short sketchy letters that told nothing about the day-to-day horrors he was seeing. Only later did we learn the facts. His helicopter mechanic training got a lot of use, but he had a second job after there were so many deaths among the helicopter flight crew. Gunnery emplacement in a Medivac ‘copter was a necessity in picking up wounded and dying — and Jerry the mechanic served double duty in that position. The horrors he must have seen are unimaginable.

Courtesy of Jeaneane WilliamsJerome Williams in Vietnam.

Jerry was changed forever by war duty. The 21-year-old who left came back with multiple problems from Agent Orange plus PTSD. Years later, when his son had planned a visit to Washington and the Vietnam Memorial, he asked his dad what names to look for and he brought him a T-shirt from the site, which somehow seemed to break a self-imposed silence.

Only in recent years have I seen glimpses of the carefree brother I’d known before Vietnam. Several years ago I retired to Greensboro, not far from where Jerry lives. During the war, he’d made friends in Vietnam with the local villagers and had even been invited to join several families in their homes for dinner. And he’d come to enjoy Vietnamese food. He took great pleasure in introducing me to his favorite Greensboro restaurant Binh Minh — and he even knows how to pronounce the dishes.

Submitted by Jeaneane Williams, Greensboro, N.C.

Peter Lorenzo, Jr.

In 1965 several of us crew members of the 8th Bomb Squadron were interviewed for a featured article in the New York Times Magazine about New Yorkers participating in the air campaign of the Vietnam War. At that time I was supportive of the war but three years later I turned very much against it.

In 1971 I resented Nixon’s extending the war just to get re-elected, and, when asked to go back to help fight it chose an early retirement instead.
Submitted by Peter Lorenzo, Jr.

Richard Eastman Downing

Richard Eastman Downing (June 16, 1920 – May 19, 1994) graduated from high school in his hometown of North Platte, Neb. He joined the Nebraska National Guard in 1939. He told us he joined the Guard because times were tough and he received $1 for each drill plus he could wear his issued shoes all the time. Company D of the 134th infantry was mobilized in December 1940 and was in training at Camp Robinson, Ark., when, on December 7, 1941, “everyone joined the war.”

Courtesy of Michael Downing

Sergeant Richard Downing was a heavy machine gunner in Company H, 66th Division of the 264th infantry from deployment in the European theater to the end of the war. The attached photo is of Richard in the Arles, France, staging area awaiting his “ticket” home in September 1945.

Once home, civilian Richard built his house (from government surplus grain bins), career (as a printer at the North Platte Telegraph) and family (with the love of his life, Edna Marie Helms Downing), in North Platte, Neb. We, his four children, ten grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren are proud of his service to his country, community and church.

Submitted by Michael Downing, Durango, Colo.

What's Next

Home Fires features the writing of men and women who have returned from wartime service in the United States military. The project originated in 2007 with a series of personal accounts from five veterans of the Iraq war on their return to American life. It now includes dispatches from veterans of wars past and present.